


Attendance Policy

by bauer



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Cock Slapping, Corporal Punishment, Humiliation, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Power Imbalance, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 17:43:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10036676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauer/pseuds/bauer
Summary: Well,someone'sgotta slap his pee-pee.





	

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [thesinbin prompt](https://thesinbin.dreamwidth.org/3790.html?thread=4762574#cmt4762574) about a... [truly insightful tweet](https://twitter.com/ByMHarrington/status/829824416754364418), and an anon's nudging. let me know if there should be any additional tags, enjoy!

Jack wasn't particularly worried about being called into Coach Quinn's office after practice. Would he have preferred to join the boys for lunch, sure, but he had no reason to think twice until he was already in the office. Quinn’s already standing behind his desk when Jack entered, and his face made Jack freeze halfway in. The look flickered for a second, switched to _I would roll my eyes if I was as young as you_ just long enough for Quinn to say, “Close the door behind you and get in here.”

So Jack closed the door and approached the desk, didn’t sit down because he wasn’t told to.

“A little bird told me,” Quinn say, dry, “That you didn’t go to your rhetoric lecture before practice. Or any of them, actually, for the last two weeks. Your tutors’ reports haven’t been glowing, either.”

Jack had excuses—that class was a joke, nobody went anyway, who actually expected him to be a good student—but he knew better than to voice them. Still, Quinn must have seen them in his eyes, the twitch of his jaw, because he continued on to say, “Boston University is offering you a world-class education in exchange for playing a little hockey. It does not reflect well onto you, and by extension this organization, for you to be squandering that opportunity.” He paused to let it sink in.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said, feeling about as genuine as any kid in any principal's office.

“You will be,” Quinn assured him. “Bend over the desk and take off your pants.”

Again, the urge to stomp his feet and whine bubbled up in Jack, but he swallowed it down, falling into step. He hesitated for the briefest moment over whether to keep his briefs up, then left them, before lying his chest on the carefully blank space on Quinn’s desk. The cool of the metal seeped through his sweatshirt, but it wasn’t enough to distract from Quinn adjusting himself out of the corner of Jack’s eye. Jack watched as he draped his jacket over the back of his chair, rolled up his sleeves, opened the top drawer, pulled out a wooden paddle. It looked dark, thick, as was standard that that level.

“I know you have lofty goals for where you’re spending next season,” Quinn said conversationally as he drifted out of view. “But you aren’t going to get very far without my recommendation. Going forward, you’re going to show some more respect to our school, but we can atone for a bit right here. Now, I have a number in mind, plus… how many classes have you missed?”

Jack went cold. “Just… just the four,” he said, finally giving in to the devil on his shoulder.

“Hm. The number _I_ heard was closer to thirteen. So early in the semester, too,” Quinn tsked. “So, thirteen minus four… nine for lying, nine since I know it’s your favorite, for a total of eighteen strikes. Does that sound fair to you?”

He felt stupid for falling into such an obvious trap, but he’d had worse. “If you say so, Coach.”

“There’s a good boy,” Quinn said, with about as much sincerity. After the number was set, he didn’t wait. The first blow landed lightly, enough to make Jack jolt, but the sting didn’t linger. Quinn kept working Jack over, spreading it out over the crest of his ass to the sensitive top of his thighs, and it started to build up, the soreness creeping in. Still, by the time Jack counted eighteen, he was sure he’d barely feel it tomorrow. Jack went to sit back up, but a hand on back pushed him down. “Oh no, kid, that was just the warm-up. You’re counting this time, too, see if any of your education has stuck.”

With that, a finger hooked into the waistband of his briefs and tugged them down to his knees.

Jack should have felt annoyed, cheated, but between the cool air hitting his stinging ass and the hand that didn’t leave his back, a totally different sensation started bubbling up in him. He heard the first blow before he felt it, and the difference became very clear. Quinn wasn’t holding back anymore, letting the heavy paddle beat the pain in deep, punching the breath out of him. “One,” Jack grunted, once he's over the shock.

Breathing, it turned out, was the the hardest part of the whole ordeal. Quinn kept up an exacting pace, left just enough time to let Jack gasp out a number and correct his squirming before landing another blow. It hurt. It hurt bad, and Jack must have some wires crossed because he could feel the wetness from his cock rubbing against his stomach, was choking on anticipation almost as much as the pain, face probably just as red as his ass.

The fifteenth blow caught a new spot, somehow, more on his inner thigh than before, and there was no keeping back the broken moan that tumbled out of his mouth, the way his hips arched back after the initial flinch, asking for more.

Jack held his breath for the next hit, sure that it would make him come and there was nothing he could do about it, but it never came. He opened his eyes, felt a few more tears escaped down his cheeks, but he didn’t dare look at Quinn. “F-fifteen?” he said.

“Stand up and face the wall, away from the desk,” is the response. Jack hesitated for a few long seconds, then slowly leaned up, unsure how his legs would support him. He reached to cover where he’s hard and leaking, but, reading his mind, Quinn said, “Hands stay on the desk.”

After Jack got in position, Quinn walked around, looked him up and down, face disappointed. “This is supposed to be a punishment, you know.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack croaked.

Quinn sighed, and said, “You chose this,” before dropping his hand down, hard, on where Jack’s cock is jutting out.

Jack curled automatically against the pain, new and sharp as his cock bobbled between them, couldn’t keep in a litany of “ah ah ah!”s. A hand on his shoulder pushed him back in place. “Holy fuck,” Jack said, and at Quinn’s raised eyebrow. “Sixteen… _fifteen_?”

“Seems fair,” Quinn said. Then, without warning, he slapped down again, this time catching the underside on the backswing. Jack _screamed_ , completely forgetting to hold himself still again, thrashing as the painpleasure radiated through his cock, his balls, his stomach. He grasped onto Quinn’s shoulder, just to have something steady as his legs quivered beneath him. Surprisingly, Quinn didn’t push him back. He looked completely unfazed as Jack crackled into pieces in front of him. “Sensitive?” he had the nerve to ask.

Jack felt that was a stupid question.

He couldn’t hold any thought in his head for long, especially when Quinn actually _grabbed his cock,_ held the tip in his hand for a long second before he started rubbing his thumb along the sensitive underside. It’s too much, whiplash from the pain to the too-sharp pleasure, and Jack would probably be sobbing if he could even _breathe_ , and, oh, god, he’s gotta come—

Quinn drops his hand, and this, this is the worst pain of the session. Jack loses it for a second, babbling senselessly into his coach’s chest, begging for anything, more, just _please—_

“Learn some control, kid,” Quinn said, stepping away after guiding him back onto his own feet. “Rest up. I expect you on your A-game this weekend.”

Jack's mind felt like a fog, and his stomach, cock, ass, all still ached. He sniffled, once, wiped his face on his sleeves, then bent over to pull up his pants. Coach Quinn was done with him, seemed ready to go home now that a days' work was through, and Jack didn't want to hold him up. He practically fled the room, feet carrying him out of Agganis, across the street, towards the dining hall. He needed to get his blood pressure back up, and the boys should've still been there. They'd give him shit, but he needed to be around them, and maybe borrow a few of their cold compresses. 

**Author's Note:**

> [literal porn ft. whining about writing tumblr](http://ratbarnaby.tumblr.com)


End file.
